


soothed beneath the artist's loving hand

by scandalousloki



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of a dark past, Nail Polish, and it's wonderful, but we love him anyway, geralt is a little bit of a sarcastic asshole, they're kinda in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28606749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalousloki/pseuds/scandalousloki
Summary: A Modern AU where Geralt loses a bet to his roommate, Jaskier, and is now getting his nails painted on their living room couch. Tenderness ensues.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 221





	soothed beneath the artist's loving hand

**Author's Note:**

> Super self-indulgent, but I couldn’t get this prompt out of my mind, so here it is! Hope you enjoy it.

“You gave me your word, Geralt,” Jaskier shouts from the other side of the door, “and I won fair and square!”

Geralt can practically hear the victorious grin on the man’s face, seeping through the cracks under the bedroom door he’s hiding behind. He knows he’ll go through with his promise eventually, but hearing Jaskier get worked up and profusely complain about Geralt’s “indignance” is undeniably amusing.

Geralt smirks and mindlessly messes with the ring on his finger. “I don’t remember making any promises.”

“It was a _bet,_ Geralt. The promise was automatically implied!” Jaskier huffs.

Geralt rolls his eyes and looks down at the empty canvases of his finger nails, slightly chewed and chipped in various, odd directions — evidence of habits he picked up in his youth. He slides his feet along the carpet and continues bantering.

“Implied, Jas? I never imply anything. I make it a point to be very clear about everything I say. You must have me confused with another Geralt.” 

“Oh, for the love of— I _cannot_ believe— Geralt, you ridiculous, cruel, cruel man!” 

Geralt has to dig his teeth into his bottom lip to keep himself from audibly chuckling. He quirks an eyebrow, even though he knows Jaskier can’t see him. “I’m cruel because I won’t let you paint my nails?” 

“Yes,” says Jaskier exasperatedly.

“I can live with that.” 

Jaskier’s footsteps shuffle until Geralt can hear the rhythm of his performative pacing up and down the hallway.

“ _Genuinely_ , Geralt, I’m not sure why I’m friends with you sometimes. You’re _exceedingly_ rude to me, you never want to do anything with me, you poke fun at my impeccable sense of fashion, you’re a _horrible_ sport—” 

To end the prattling, Geralt caves: “Fine.”

Immediately, Jaskier perks up and struts back in front of Geralt’s door. “I knew you’d come around.”

With a deep sigh, Geralt opens the door and sees the beaming, jovial expression Jaskier has plastered onto his face and briefly wonders if he should run for his life. But then it’s too late, because Jaskier is already latching onto his arm and dragging him into the living room. 

In a surprisingly impressive and organized display of anticipation for this event, Jaskier had already neatly folded an old grey towel over one of their throw pillows, placed it in the center of the couch and arranged all of his nail polishes in a color-coordinated line on the coffee table. Geralt seriously wonders how Jaskier manages to take this task so seriously.

“Sit!” Jaskier chirps, swivelling around Geralt to reach the T.V. remote. Geralt sits, spreading his limbs on the couch in the most inconvenient yet comfortable way possible, and shifting the pillow-towel-duo all the way to the other side. Hearing the shuffling, Jaskier briefly turns around to monitor him, then goes back to his task of putting on some music.

Jaskier scrolls through his extensive repertoire of specifically curated playlists, which Geralt finds painfully impractical. 

“Manspreading isn’t going to stop me from making you beautiful. My manicuring skills are inevitable, Ger-Bear.” 

Geralt cringes. “ _Ger-Bear?_ ”

Jaskier selects a playlist called **_songs geralt and i both like? in my spotify playlist? it's more likely than you think._ ** and replies, “Yep, I’ve been trying to find some new nicknames for you. How do you feel about that one?” 

“Hate it.” 

“Perfect! I will now be using it forever!” Jaskier grins without a trace of irony. As the sound of _Rocket Man_ by Elton John fills the room, Jaskier waltzes back, heaves one of Geralt’s legs off the couch, and perches next to him. Putting the pillow on his lap, Jaskier glances between Geralt’s hands and the polishes on the table. “Do you prefer any color in particular?”

Geralt deadpans. “I don’t care.” — which translates in Jaskier’s mind to: “I trust your judgement.”

“Lovely,” he muses, grabbing pink and baby blue polishes and setting them by Geralt’s knee. “Your hands, please?”

Reluctantly, Geralt complies. With, perhaps, the most delicacy he’s ever been handled with, Jaskier lays both of Geralt’s palms face down on the towel, briefly tracing gentle circles on the sides of his hands.

Geralt pretends not to notice the heart-warming unfamiliarity of it, of being treated like someone that deserves tenderness.

Jaskier lifts Geralt’s left hand first, pressing their palms together while his other hand twists open the cap to the pink polish. 

Geralt doesn’t even realize he’s been gazing at Jaskier’s face until the man looks up at him with a devious smile. “Any last words before I begin?”

He huffs a laugh. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Jaskier’s lips part playfully as he feigns offense. To really sell the number, he brings his hand to his chest — forgetting that the small nail brush is in it. He mumbles an expletive under his breath, earning a small chuckle from Geralt.

In an attempt to veer back to the task at hand, Jaskier tries — and fails — to remove the pink stain from his burgundy crop top, complains when Geralt refuses to help, and gives up after a good thirty seconds.

“Right, then, I’ll just…” Jaskier exhales and holds Geralt’s left hand again — for support and steadiness, obviously. Jaskier dips the brush back into the pink bottle and then pinches Geralt’s thumb between his fingers.

Geralt watches Jaskier’s expression; his swept aside brunette hair paving the way for his forehead, then his furrowed brows, and his eyes squinting in adamant concentration. Geralt passively acknowledges that Jaskier could be considered objectively attractive, if you look hard enough. Or just look, in general. 

Then Geralt shakes the thought from his head and focuses on his nails. Jaskier hums along to _Pilot Jones_ as he finishes the first coat on Geralt’s index finger. He notices that the color appears very thin and knits his brows together. “Is it supposed to look like that?” 

“Like what?”

“Almost translucent?”

“Oh! Yes, actually. This is cheap nail polish so it takes a good two or three coats for the color to actually show. Don’t worry,” Jaskier reasons, patting the top of Geralt’s hand in consolation.

Geralt hardly finds logic in that. Jaskier clearly likes doing his own and others nails. He should have products of pristine quality, plus it would mean less time sitting here and, quite literally, watching paint dry.

Jaskier skips Geralt’s middle finger, and shifts his hand to have better access to his ring finger. Geralt gradually begins to register the warmth of Jaskier’s hand, the subtle dexterity of his fingers, the slight calluses at the tips of them from playing seven different variants of the same stringed instruments. Against his own, it’s a curious sight; some distorted parody of camaraderie between two hands — holding each other with unspoken softness. 

Jaskier’s humming, sweet and careful, only encourages his sudden and misplaced affliction. He moves on to Geralt’s right hand, setting his left one down on the towel and frantically fanning it.

Geralt frowns. “Don’t you have a portable fan in your room?” 

Jaskier bites his bottom lip in thought then tuts, “Eh, too much work,” which doesn’t surprise Geralt in the slightest.

“Hmm.”

Geralt lays his head on the couch and tries to look around their apartment. He disapprovingly sees the evidence of Jaskier’s “home office” — really just their dining room table — with several scores and half-used journal papers scattered about. He fights the urge to verbally acknowledge it, and resigns himself to a fond sigh. 

Jaskier doesn’t look up, yet somehow already understands Geralt’s distress. “Listen,” he says, “I know it _looks_ messy, but I know where everything is. And I personally believe that’s all that matters.”

“Even if that _were_ true, where are we supposed to eat, Jaskier?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “In our _rooms_ , Geralt. Like we always do! We don’t even use the dining table.”

Geralt tilts his head. “What if we have visitors?”

“Then, hopefully, they’d have the decency to make us aware of their arrival before showing up at our door so I can take all of _two minutes_ to restore our dining table to its original state. I mean, honestly, Geralt, I don’t understand—”

“What if they don’t pre-announce their arrival?”

“And _who_ would—” Jaskier holds his tongue and some type of guilt-riddled expression dances across his face. He regains interest in Geralt’s right thumb. “How is she, by the way?”

Geralt shrugs. “Dunno.”

“How long has it been, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Geralt’s mouth begins to feel slightly heavier, as he realizes that he doesn’t want to be having this conversation whatsoever. 

“Four months,” he says, then gestures with his head towards the television, “How long have you been working on this playlist?”

Jaskier’s subtle smile returns, eclipsed by Geralt’s visually restricting angle. “About two weeks after we first became friends.”

Geralt searches his mental timeline for whatever-the-fuck timespan _that’s_ supposed to be. “So... two weeks ago?”

Jaskier actually _pouts_ , but Geralt thinks it was absolutely worth it.

“You are so, _so_ horrible to me, you grumpy little man.”

Geralt scoffs, “Little?”

Jaskier waves his hand in irritation and backpedals. “Well, I mean— okay, not _physically_ , obviously— that’s implied, given the context.”

Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “You and these ‘implications’, Jaskier. I’m beginning to wonder how much of your logic is based on explicit evidence.”

“ _Excuse me!_ ” Jaskier squacks, shoves the polish brush back into its bottle, and crosses his arms. “I’ll have you know that I am very capable of having data-based logic!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“You— ugh. Geralt, you are _the_ most impossible person I’ve ever met.” Jaskier takes both of Geralt's hands into his own, and softly blows on the wet paint.

The coolness reminds Geralt of the first winter they spent as roommates in this apartment. Having lived in the south for basically his entire life, Jaskier was ill-prepared for freezing temperatures and living in an apartment that hardly kept them warm. When Jaskier would fall asleep on the couch after last-minute cramming sessions, he’d be visibly shivering; Geralt would come home from work and take out three thick blankets from the linen closet and cover him. Just out of courtesy. They might have their arguments and disagreements, but he never wanted Jaskier to be cold. He knows what the cold is like. He knows what it’s like for someone to see him shivering and leave him there. He knows what it’s like to leave, to be left. To be unwanted, to be _cold_ — 

Geralt clenches his jaw and shuts his eyes. Before he can stop himself, he envelopes his hands around Jaskier’s.

“Uh— Ger, you okay?”

It’s still too cold. He presses his thumbs to Jaskier’s palms and traces irregular lines. He wants to learn the lines of Jaskier’s fingers to know what it’ll take to keep him warm forever. Could it work like that, he wonders, would it make him better?

“Geralt?” 

“Are you cold?” he croaks.

Jaskier’s voice eases back down, “Geralt..”

“I don’t want you to be cold, Jask. You’ve only ever been warm, and I don’t understand it, I—”

“Hey,” consoles Jaskier, running his hands up Geralt’s forearms, “None of that, okay? I’m warm to people who deserve it, or people who _need_ it. You’re both of those. You’ve always been good to me. I’m warm, Geralt, and I’ll keep you warm too. Okay?”

It’s easier to breathe, it’s easier to think. He nods.

“Good, good. I’m still here, okay? Do you want to wait a moment, or—”

“No, no. It’s okay, I’m good. Sorry.”

Jaskier slaps his hand gently and sucks his teeth. “Don’t apologize, dear, it happens. You’ve done the same for me.”

Geralt only vaguely remembers, but it’s enough. He believes Jaskier, and he always will. _Bennie and the Jets_ begins to play.

Jaskier takes out the blue polish brush and makes quick work out of painting Geralt’s two middle fingers. It’s a pretty humorous choice of accent nail, considering how often Geralt uses it.

“You’ve always been kind, Geralt. You just never knew what it looked like. Or _why_.”

Geralt believes Jaskier, but sometimes it’s hard to. “I know why. With you.”

Jaskier looks up at him amusedly, “Really? Enlighten me then, Ger-Bear.”

Geralt grimaces, but continues nonetheless. “You have so much to give. Someone has to make sure you’re still full enough to give it.”

Jaskier pauses, hands stilling as the last coat appears on Geralt’s right hand. “You mean that?”

That’s a silly question. Why wouldn’t he? 

“Of course.”

Jaskier sets both polish bottles back on the table, presses his lips into a line, and drops his head. “Fuck,” he whispers.

He leans forward and rests his head on Geralt’s chest. Geralt moves his hands out of the way so as not to mess up Jaskier’s hard work. 

“Jaskier…?” he says tentatively. It’s too familiar. He hopes Jaskier can breathe, at least.

“If you _knew_ , Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, “if you know how much I wanted to give, how I wanted to give it, _who_ I wanted to give it to—” 

“I’d still be here, Jask. You know that.”

Jaskier laughs, almost painfully, “If you _knew_ …”

Geralt wants to reassure him. “Try me.”

Jaskier exhales and sits back up to look Geralt in the eyes. 

“Everything I have to offer, everything I have to _give_ … I’d give it to you in a moment’s notice, Geralt. And it’s always been that way. Of course I love sharing and caring for other people, but I’d drop all of it for you. And it’s pathetic because I know you’d never _want_ that, and I never should’ve allowed myself to—”

Geralt’s overheating, bustling with warmth. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier shuts his eyes slowly, almost as if anticipating— “Yes?”

“I would like that.”

Jaskier blinks cautiously, lightly jerking his head about his neck in confusion. 

“Like… what, exactly?”

Geralt smirks. “I thought you were good at understanding implications.”  
  


“I thought _you_ always made it a point to be ‘very clear’.”

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

“I care deeply for you.”

“That’s very kind.”

“I’d happily take anything you have to offer, in exchange for… whatever I have that makes you want to give that to me.”

Jaskier takes a moment to register this. Geralt can see his train of thought as his facial gestures gradually shift. Jaskier is very attractive, objectively.

Jaskier brings his hands back to Geralt’s forearms. “Really?” 

Geralt presses his palms to both of Jaskier’s cheeks. “Yeah.”

There is so much warmth between them that Geralt can’t imagine either of them getting cold anytime soon. They’ve always been a home, they’ve always been the shelter, they've always been wanting. 

Jaskier looks like he might fall to pieces within the next ten seconds. Geralt wants to hold him together, silently promises to reassemble him if need be. 

“Can I kiss you, Geralt?” 

Geralt says yes a million times over in his mind, as he looks between Jaskier’s eyes and his perfectly inviting lips. 

“I _would_ say yes but… don’t my nails need more time to dry?” he jests.

Jaskier laughs a beautiful, jovial laugh. Geralt hasn’t heard anything like it before. It’s music to his ears. He wonders if Jaskier can put it on their Spotify playlist. 

Geralt cuts off the sound by pressing their lips together. A unlearned, very new, inexperienced kiss full of so much more than meets the eye. Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck, and they stay there — kissing home and comfort onto each other's lips until there’s nowhere else to go.

➳➳➳

Geralt’s nails are mostly chipped off within two weeks, but they looked wonderful while they lasted.

The next time Jaskier insists on painting Geralt’s nails, he bribes him with kisses. Lots and lots of kisses. Luckily, the process goes much quicker because Geralt invested in the best polishes he could find and gifted them to him.

Besides, there were better things they both needed time for now, so much more they both had to give.

**Author's Note:**

> Side note: I didn't think it was going to be as dense when I started this, lol. I wanted to write a lighthearted little fic, and yet here we are. Nonetheless, thanks for sticking around. <3


End file.
